The Anatomy of Emotion

Chapter Six

Saria and the guy in the sweater are watching curiously, but she ignores them, her brain whirring. Corin takes a deep breath. His voice doesn't change.

"L.A."

"Corin, if I get the slightest feeling that you're stalking me—"

"You're here too? I didn't...we have a show tonight. And tomorrow, and..."

He sucks in a coarse breath, and then another, and then another. She can see him in her mind's eye, curled in a corner, hyperventilating, and clutching his head as whatever it is that drowns him unfolds inside.

She closes her eyes and works the panicked fingers free of her chest, "listen to me. You cancel your show tonight."

"No—"

"You cancel your show tonight," she repeats, "tell them Alex overdosed or Quentin has alcohol poisoning for all I care. What venue are you at?"

"The Glass House."

"You had better not be on stage when I get there," she snaps, lifting the phone from her ear.

The last thing she hears is him telling her not to bother when she shuts the phone. Saria is at the ready when Maeva looks at her.

"I need a different top, different shoes, and my car. You have five minutes. After I'm gone, tell the gallery owners I had to leave and field the rest of my sales—I trust you know how to do that now?"

"Yes, yes," Saria turns and clicks away, murmuring under her breath, "world renowned, award winning artist. Full price or go fuck yourself."

Maeva watches her go and kicks back the last of her champagne. She swallows it slowly, washing all the stress in her body down with the bubbles. Finally she sighs, and the guy in the sweater shifts his weight. She smiles at him and walks away before he can say anything else.

It takes her another two minutes to get back to the entrance, where her car is idling beside Saria. She is folding a soft cropped shirt on top of a pair of Converse. Maeva thanks her and sends her back into the gallery before getting behind the wheel and driving.

The venue is across downtown from the gallery, a ten minute drive with clear roads, a thirty minute drive with the inevitable traffic. Every time she is stopped, Maeva bites her lip and looks at her phone in the cup holder. She worries that he might hurt himself by the time she gets there, but she doesn't call, just hopes.

The Glass House is more than alive with the crowd screaming at the empty stage. Eurydice, Eurydice, Eurydice they wail, or Corin, or Alex, or Quentin, Nathaniel, Cameron. Maeva brushes by the front entrances and the tour buses and finds her way to the back.

"Band members only," the guard folds his arms.

"Maeva Leroux?" She shows him her license and he leads her backstage.

It is crowded with groupies and roadies and equipment, stinking of alcohol, weed—and if she is not mistaken—cocaine. No heroin though. That lightens something in her chest as she follows the bouncer through the crowd. There is no end in sight to the bodies. More than a few people recognize her, but the bouncer waves them off at the first light of socialization that crosses their faces.

They finally break free into another room. This one is quiet, even more amps and speakers and microphones, spare guitars and cymbals in cases; a pile of water bottles, beers, and syrupy juices stacked at the edge of the stage entrance. The bouncer stands by the door as Maeva ventures further into the dim room, teetering in her heels around cords and laid down mic stands. She finds Corin burrowed between two speakers. His arms are wrapped around his knees and his head is knocked back on the wall behind him. He is not hyperventilating anymore though. His hands are trembling as he takes deep breaths.